The letter arrived at noon, carried by a courier who refused to look at her.
Fianna walked back and forth in her studio, the letter grasped in her hand, her heart beating with hope and terror. She'd spent the entire morning waiting for Dante to show up at her door with some kind of apology for his misplaced actions the day before.
He hadn't.
And now there was this letter.
She sat at her easel, the canvas before her still blank, and opened the envelope with trembling fingers. The paper was bright and white, the handwriting neat and precise, like the man himself.
"Fianna," she read, and his name written on paper made her heart constrict.
"I don't know how to begin this letter. I don't know how to explain what I can't explain."
The words blurred together as tears filled her eyes.
"I have to leave London. Tonight. There are things in my life—things in my past—who I am not able to tell you about yet. Things that would put you at risk if you were to know about them."
She read on, each sentence a cut to her heart.
"I want you to know that things were different after I met you. You showed me what it feels like to be alive. What it feels like to hope. What it feels like to love."
There was a tear on the page, smudging the ink slightly.
"I don't know when I'll see you again. I don't know if I'll ever be able to tell the truth about who I am, about what I was. But I want you to know that no matter what, no matter what happens to us, you've given me something precious."
She swallowed, her breath caught in her throat.
"You've given me hope."
The letter was signed with nothing more than: "Dante."
Fianna sat there for an eternity, the letter clutched in her hand, trying to figure out what had happened. How was it that someone who had seemed so real, so present, so alive, just disappeared? How was it possible that love that had seemed so real, so certain, could just fade away into nothing?
She recalled the first time she met him, the way their gazes connected on the street. The way he'd gazed at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. The way he'd talked about art and existence and how morning light reflected off water.
She remembered the date for coffee, the way he'd kissed her cheek, the way he'd told her he would call again.
And now he was gone.
She went to the window, looking out onto the street where she met him. The world outside seemed the same—people walking, cars passing by, life continuing as if nothing was out of sorts. But everything was different.
Everything.
She picked up her phone and dialed his number, but it went straight to voicemail. She tried again, and again, but there was no answer. Only silence. Only emptiness.
Just like her heart.
She returned to her easel, staring at the blank canvas. She'd been painting a landscape—blues and greens and suggestions of mountains in the far distance. It was the same painting she'd been working on when Dante had first appeared at her studio.
Now it was useless. Barren. Like everything else.
She picked up her brush and began to paint, not thinking, just moving. The colors seeped from her brush like tears—blues and purples and deep, dark reds. She painted the petals first, letting the emotions guide her hand. Then, almost unconsciously, her brush moved to the center of the rose. She paused, staring at the canvas, and with a deliberate stroke, she painted the outline of a dagger nestled among the petals. The blade was subtle, almost hidden, but unmistakable—a symbol of threat entwined with beauty.
When she was done, she stepped back to look at what she had painted.
It was a rose. One rose, painted red and black, its borders gold. But something was wrong with it. Something dark and evil. Something that suggested beauty and pain, love and loss.
And in the center of the rose, the dagger gleamed, half-hidden among the petals, a deliberate mark of danger and love.
She gazed at the painting, her heart racing. She had no idea where it was from, no idea why she'd painted it. But she knew it was significant. Knew it was significant to something.
Something with Dante.
She recalled how he'd looked at her, the way he'd talked, the way he'd walked. There had always been that in him—something dangerous and dark, something that promised secrets and shadows.
But she'd loved him anyway. Had trusted him anyway. Had believed that whatever evil he harbored within him, it couldn't penetrate the goodness she read in his eyes.
Now she wasn't so sure.
She read the letter again, this time more deliberately. Looking for clues, for hints, for something that would let her know who he really was.
"I have to leave London. Tonight. There are things in my life—things in the past—that I'm not yet able to share with you. Things that would put you at risk if you knew them."
What kind of past would endanger her? What kind of man was he, really?
She recalled the manner in which he'd approached her, so slow and elegant, like a predator who'd decided to reveal itself. She recalled the manner in which he'd spoken, his voice so deep and rough, as if not having uttered a word in days. She recalled the manner in which he'd looked at her, like he could see deep within her soul.
And she recognized that she'd never really known him in the first place.
But she'd loved him despite it.
She looked again at the painting—the rose and the dagger, beauty and threat twined. And she saw that love was like that. Beautiful and deadly. Worth it and deadly.
Like Dante.
She picked up her phone and dialed her father's number.
"Dad," she said when he answered. "I need to talk to you."
"Of course, sweetie. What is it?"
"I met someone. A man. Named Dante. And now he's gone. And I don't know what to do."
There was silence on the other end that stretched out for a long time.
"Dante?" her father said finally, his voice guarded. "Dante Valerio Inferni?"
Fianna's heart stopped. "You know him?"
Another silence, longer yet.
"Come home, Fianna," her father said. "We need to talk."
She looked at the painting—the rose and the dagger, beautiful and deadly, just as the love that had changed everything.
"Okay," she said. "I'll be right there."
She hung up the phone and looked at the letter in her hand. At the words that had broken her heart and opened her eyes.
At the truth that was finally emerging from the shadows.
And she knew that no matter what the future was, whatever she would hear from her dad, whatever the truth about Dante turned out to be, she would never be that same woman she had fallen in love with a stranger in an art studio.
She had found love.
And it had found her as well.
Even if it was to face the shadows that hid in the darkness.
Although it would take in learning that love was like a rose with a dagger in its midst—lovely and fatal, valuable and perilous.
As in Dante.